False Flag

by Bobby Akart

  “I know we’ve encountered a few rough patches, and the supplies will start coming in again. In the meantime, we need to band together to help ourselves,” continued Archibald. He held a printed flyer over his head and turned from left to right for effect. “After my appointment, I distributed flyers and posted them in prominent places around the county as well. I wanted everyone to have the opportunity to voluntarily comply with the President’s declaration. We are all in this together, my friends, and it isn’t necessary that we become at odds with our neighbors.”

  The flyer stated the primary directives of the Declaration of Martial Law requiring weapons and ammunition surrender, the turning over of excess food and supplies, and a pledge of allegiance to the spirit and intent of the Citizen Corps.

  “Unfortunately, not all residents have been cooperative in our efforts to gain compliance with the President’s declaration,” he continued. “We are now entering our third week of this disaster, and it is time to move toward the next phase of implementation. I commend those of you who joined us in our efforts, and you will be rewarded. But I must ask one more thing of you.

  “I’ve divided my region into ten geographical parts, each with an appointed Citizen Corps team leader. These team leaders have been given the written authority to conduct house-to-house searches of their neighborhoods to ensure compliance with the President’s directives. They have been given the requisite weapons, manpower, and promised support to effectuate this purpose.” Archibald paused as the attendees mumbled amongst themselves and began to shift nervously on their feet. He had anticipated this reaction.

  “This action could have been avoided had our friends and neighbors simply complied with the flyers I distributed. But hostilities can still be avoided in another way. I need your help in identifying those among us who selfishly hoard food and supplies for themselves. Those who are unwilling to share their bounties put you and your families at risk. Further, anyone who refuses to relinquish their weapons as required for the safety of the community puts us all at risk.

  “More food and supplies are on the way. Our government is here to help us. As an incentive to those of you who cooperate with me today, you will be earmarked for additional shares of the supplies.”

  The crowd’s demeanor picked up, and nods of approval were abundant. He created an army of snitches.

  “After the meeting, the Citizen Corps team leaders will disperse throughout the common and hold up a sign indicating their assigned subregions of Hampshire County. Please introduce yourself to them and have comfort in knowing that any information you share with them, or me, will be held in the strictest confidence.” It was time to take a few questions. The residents asked a variety of questions, for which Archibald had no answers. When was the power going to be restored? What about outsiders trying to move in? Somebody stole some of my chickens, what can be done about that?

  The last question, asked by one of the residents, needed to be addressed, and he had prepared a response.

  “What’s going on at Prescott Peninsula? Are you gonna do anything about Jimmy Fulks, who was shot in cold blood?”

  Pearson leaned up in his chair and got Archibald’s attention. “What’s this about?”

  Archibald nodded and mouthed I got this.

  “I know this has been on everyone’s mind and I appreciate your concern,” said Archibald. “As you know, Prescott Peninsula has been converted into a community for the protection of abused families. But we know very little about it. I don’t know if the families are safe, how many are there, etc.”

  A resident shouted, “Maybe they have extra food and supplies to share with the rest of us?”

  “Yeah, we need to know this, right, Archie?” Archie was used as a nickname by Ronald Archibald’s friends.

  “I agree, everyone, and I intend to broach the subject with them,” replied Archibald. “Prescott Peninsula has been designated part of my territory, and therefore, they must comply with my rules. We’ll deliver that message loud and clear first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, September 21, 2016

  8:00 a.m.

  Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  The Citizen Corps contingent of eight men led by Archibald approached the front gate of Prescott Peninsula, which was manned by CWO Shore and three of his men. On Brad’s instructions, none of his personnel wore uniforms during patrols. Khakis, camo pants like those made by Wrangler, and solid-color T-shirts in black, olive, or green were suggested.

  CWO Shore immediately saw he was outmanned and contacted 1PP to send another team to the front entrance. He quickly instructed his men to spread out and take defensive positions on both sides of the gate and near the guardhouse. His military training sensed a potential conflict, and he wasn’t gonna lose another man. Shore took Sab’s death pretty hard because it happened on his watch. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the local who raised his gun to shoot her.

  As the two SUVs skidded to a halt in the gravel, Shore raised his weapon to low ready and stood firm in front of them. He trusted his men and knew that they would tear these locals to shreds if they considered raising their weapons in his direction. The driver of the lead vehicle stepped out of the GMC Yukon, as did his companion in the passenger seat. The other men began to open their doors when Shore shouted at them.

  “That’s enough! This is private property. Remain in your vehicles.” Red dots appeared from all directions as his men lit up their targets. They were sending a message to the visitors.

  “Now, there’s no reason for all of this animosity, my friends,” said Archibald. “My name is Ronald Archibald from nearby Belchertown. I need to speak to the person in charge here.”

  Shore stood firm and repeated his warning, “This is private property. You need to return to your vehicle and leave now!”

  “Are you boys military?” asked Pearson, but he didn’t receive an answer. After a few moments of awkward silence, Shore heard the sound of approaching four-wheelers with his requested reinforcements. “My name is Joseph Pearson with the Federal Protective Services. Mr. Archibald has the full authority of the President to enter these premises.”

  “Back in your vehicle, sir,” said Shore, instantly recognizing the name. He was glad he was wearing his Oakley sunglasses. “I won’t ask again.”

  “Or what?” shouted one of the men from the other vehicle. “You gonna shoot us like you shot Jimmy in cold blood?”

  The four additional soldiers arrived and quickly dispersed, taking positions behind the HESCO barriers. The sight of the additional security personnel caused the visitors to cower behind their doors or return to their vehicles.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but let’s get one thing straight,” said Archibald. “I am the head of the Citizen Corps in this area, and Prescott Peninsula, hell, all of Quabbin Reservoir, comes under my jurisdiction. You tell your superiors that I will be back tomorrow. They will speak with me. They will obey my instructions.” Angrily, Archibald reached into the truck to grab something, which caused all of the red dots to be trained on him. He had a stack of flyers and threw them on the road in front of Shore.

  “You give this to your boss and tell him I’ll be back tomorrow with a whole lot more questions than I had when I got here,” shouted Archibald, shaking his head and shoulders side to side with a swagger as he turned to walk back to his truck. “Let’s go!”

  Chapter 25

  Wednesday, September 21, 2016

  3:00 p.m.

  Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Aside from world leaders, top government officials and longtime family friends, only a few people could elicit a personal response, much less a face-to-face meeting, with the President of the United States. This President had many close advisors, including Rex Tillerson, the ExxonMobil chairman; Andy Stern, outgoing president of the Service Employees International Union; and Billy Tauz
in, the head of the Pharmaceutical Manufacturers of America. Big Oil—Big Labor—Big Pharma. Then, there was Valerie Jarrett, the gatekeeper of the President’s circle of confidants.

  They were part of an elite group of American political movers and shakers capable of directing the highest levels of government to do their bidding. The stature of America’s elite power brokers was determined by a variety of factors, including legislative victories, overall lobbying expenditures, and the number of visits to the White House. After all, can one really be a power broker without multiple trips to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?

  Morgan had never visited this President at the White House. He preferred to remain in the shadows. He considered himself a lobbyist, of sorts. He had an incredible knack for determining a politician’s true agenda and then manipulating their goals to mesh with his. Sometimes, Morgan would create opportunities for the Boston Brahmin based upon the politician’s blind spots.

  The cyber attack was the most strategic and ambitious of these opportunities. However, Morgan underestimated the President, a mistake that he would attempt to rectify. Morgan considered himself a close confidant of the President. He was instrumental in placing him into office in 2008. But now the President was more than aloof, he was avoiding Morgan.

  In August, he met with the President, who was vacationing in Morgan’s home on Martha’s Vineyard. The two agreed to pursue this course of action—the reset. They also pledged to do so in concert with one another. The message Morgan sent to the President’s Chief of Staff was clear—we need to continue our Martha’s Vineyard conversation.

  “Mr. President, it has been some time since we’ve had an opportunity to speak,” started Morgan.

  “That’s true, John, but I’ve been a little busy.” The President bristled.

  “Then I’ll get right to the point. We need to discuss bringing this to an end, Mr. President. Our companies are ready to deliver the computer servers, transformers, and the overseas personnel to restore power across the country. We’re prepared to fulfill our end of the bargain. I need your approval to set things into motion with DARPA.”

  DARPA, an acronym for Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, was an agency of the Department of Defense responsible for developing new technologies for the military. Created in 1958 under the authority of President Eisenhower, scientists at DARPA had produced hundreds of technologically sophisticated tools used by the government in every capacity.

  Companies controlled by the Boston Brahmin, as an integral part of the military-industrial community, worked closely with DARPA program managers. One of the projects initiated in the past year was known as RADICS—Rapid Attack Detection, Isolation and Characterization Systems. The project, still in its infancy, was designed to provide early warning of impending cyber attacks on critical infrastructure as well as rapid forensic identifications of cyber threats. The RADICS project was also expanded to include mitigation and damage control following a successful attack by isolating unaffected networks, repairing damaged ones, and coordinating efforts to replace damaged electricity transmission components, like transformers.

  Morgan knew that billions of dollars would be made from the cyber attack, and not just in the United States. Every advanced nation in the world would pay handsomely for the innovative technologies and the response protocols established by the Boston Brahmin’s companies.

  “There’s still work to do, John,” said the President, placing emphasis on Morgan’s name. “You’ll make your money, now let me finish what I started.” This conversation was not going the way Morgan intended. The President was surly and combative. He’s mocking me.

  “Our goals may have differed, Mr. President, as we discussed at Martha’s Vineyard. But we both agreed on what brought us here. We’ve made our point, and the American people have suffered enough. It’s time to give them the hope and change that you envisioned many years ago. It’s an opportunity for you to cement your legacy among world leaders.” Morgan was trying to exploit the President’s vanity.

  “Let me be clear, John. We’ve only begun this process. You, and privileged white Americans like you, don’t understand the plight of the common man. You don’t understand what my people have experienced for hundreds of years.”

  Morgan was incensed. My people? “With all due respect, Mr. President, this is not the time for political rhetoric,” said Morgan sternly into the satphone. “We need to bring this to an end.”

  The President ignored him, shouting into the receiver, “White people don’t have to worry about their race being targeted by police as they walk down the street. White people have been unjustly enriched for centuries on the backs of people of color. White people don’t have to worry about being passed over for a job interview because they have a black-sounding name.”

  Morgan had had enough. “What is your point, Mr. President?” asked Morgan. “Not so long ago, someone with a self-described funny name was elected President. White people like me supported that President. The President I supported pledged to bridge the racial divide in this country, not widen it. So, what is your point?” Morgan repeated the question, this time shouting.

  “My point is, John, that the time has come for the reset you seek, but it will fulfill my vision, not yours. I envision a country in which everyone is equal—socially, economically, and politically. This country became rich by invading, occupying, and looting poor countries around the globe. In the name of capitalism and free markets, this country has achieved its power by economic plunder. This stops now. It’s true that I pledged to bridge the racial divide of this nation. I also pledged to fundamentally transform America. The job is not done.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 26

  Wednesday, September 21, 2016

  6:00 p.m.

  Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Morgan suddenly felt clammy and light-headed. He found his way to a chair in the small bungalow and sat down. No one had ever spoken to him that way. “I’m John Morgan,” he unknowingly said aloud.

  The numbness he was experiencing in his jaw and extending down his left arm was not new. Although there was no history of heart disease in his family, his cardiologist had diagnosed him as being hypertense. It had been developing gradually over several years as he developed sleep apnea. His first concern was that the stress of his job was the cause. His physician assured him hypertension had little to do with stress and a lot to do with issues surrounding his kidneys, thyroid, and sleep issues.

  Recently, his prescription was changed to an ACE inhibitor called lisinopril. Morgan failed to communicate this change to Susan, who was responsible for maintaining the pharmacy at 1PP. Morgan ran out of his lisinopril a week ago and began taking a generic diuretic class of blood pressure medication instead. His body was not handling the transition well.

  His shortness of breath subsided, and he wiped the sweat from his face and neck. Morgan was able to make his way to a pantry cabinet and found the low-dose aspirin. His hands shook as he took the aspirin, quickly chasing it with water. This cannot be happening to me. I’ve got to calm down.

  He lowered himself into his nearby bed and thought about the conversation with the President. The President had avoided him, and that was telling in itself. The emotional outburst revealed the President’s true feelings. He had violated rule number one, which was never let them know what you’re thinking.

  Perhaps the President was blinded by his anger, which would prevent him from thinking clearly. But Morgan could not take any chances. They would be in danger now. The President would consider Morgan a threat and take steps to minimize his influence. Or worse.

  Morgan had recovered from his episode and was seeing the situation with more clarity. It was time to move forward. He used the satphone to place a call to General Sears. After a brief tussle with a new aide, General Sears came on the phone.

  “Hello, John.”

  “Mason, this won’t take long,” said Morgan.


  “I appreciate that, but I’m here for you, John.”

  “In your dealings with the President, is his focus on repairing the damage to the nation or something else?” asked Morgan.

  “I would call his actions and attitude strategic scheming. As you know, I am not part of his inner circle. I become involved in the process once his decision has been made.”

  “Who are his primary advisors?” Morgan paced the floor and glanced out of the windows of the bungalow. Susan and the girls were gathering pine tree nuts near the edge of the woods.

  “The usual suspects, including Rice and Jarrett, are always by his side. But he’s brought back an old friend—his favorite general.”

  “Are you talking about Cartwright?” asked Morgan, who suddenly snapped to attention.

  “One and the same. James Hoss Cartwright, former vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs, is back and has become an integral part of the President’s advisory team.”

  “You had him stripped of his security clearance when he leaked the details about Stuxnet,” said Morgan.

  Cartwright had conceived and ran the cyber operation known as Olympic Games, which included Stuxnet and other highly sophisticated pieces of malware aimed at the Iranian nuclear effort. Stuxnet entered Iran’s nuclear apparatus through hacked suppliers. The Stuxnet worm was introduced into five component vendors that were key to Iran’s nuclear program, including the one that developed the centrifuges. These firms became unwitting Trojan horses for Stuxnet. Once the malware infiltrated the Iranians’ network and compromised the data at the critically important Natanz plant, it set back the Iranian nuclear program several years.